10 Things
by CarsAndTelephones
Summary: 10 moments in the lives of the Enterprise crew based on songs. Some long, some short, some happy, some bittersweet.
1. Cherry, Golden Slumbers

_AN—This is a collection of 10 little ficlets or drabbles based on songs. It seemed like a fun thing to do so I (instead of writing my Metaphysics term paper on the Meaning of Life) put my iTunes on shuffle and just wrote for the duration of the song just to see what would happen. I went through and edited it later and added a lot of stuff on, but tried to keep my original mindset all the way through. I guess this is an exercise in character development more than anything else. It was lots of fun to do. Anyway, please review, review, REVIEW! _

_I'll be updating two ficlets every day for the next five days._

_Disclaimer—I don't own Star Trek, I just like writing about it. Don't own any of these songs either._

**1. Cherry**—_Ratatat_

Starlight caught her eye as it glinted on the deck of the Enterprise.

Another slow day.

It felt like people back on Earth had the impression that all these missions, all these adventures, were always chock-full of danger and pumped so full of adrenaline that it was like constantly being on crack.

But they didn't know about days like these.

Days where not much happened. Days where they simply sat through their shifts, checking reports, running status updates, and making sure everything ran properly. It was routine. It was normal. It was unexciting.

But also somehow comforting.

Uhura looked around at the bridge. Stars winked at her out of the black from the viewscreen and contrasted with the pristine whiteness of the deck around her. Crewmembers bustled about, muttering about this or that, checking reports with each other or otherwise engrossed in their various tasks. Spock sat at his station taking readings, a very faint line creasing between his eyebrows in a way that meant he was not angry, but deep in thought and Jim Kirk lounged in the command chair with his back to her playing with his communicator absently as he read one out of a heavy stack of lengthy reports. As always, the general murmur from the crew persisted at a constant buzz and the perpetual motion of the crew around her was ever present.

Uhura smiled.

Days like this made the Enterprise home.

**2. Golden Slumbers—**_The Beatles_

The blonde in his arms struggled a little, moaning out a soft cry for her mother. He hushed her a little and held her closer. She couldn't have been more than twenty years old and here she was dying in his arms, looking for the simple comfort of home and he could do nothing to bring it to her. He could do nothing to save her.

"It's okay, sweetheart," he said, letting his southern accent tinge his voice more than usual, trying to comfort the dying girl. "It's okay… You're—you're goin' home right now. You're goin' home, okay?"

She gasped, her breathing labored and difficult, but her glazed eyes still found his in the semi-darkness. She struggled to speak. She opened her mouth to say something, but it turned into a racking cough and blood appeared livid on the edges of her mouth, a stark contrast to her whitened face.

He took the sleeve of his blue uniform and wiped the red trickle away, as he did realizing that his hands shook uncontrollably. "Shh, now, darlin'," he comforted, "Go to sleep now, it's okay."

She let out one last shuddering gasp and then breathed no more. Her eyes still stared out at the world, but she was forever gone from them. They were a sad imprint of what had been only moments ago alive and vibrant. She was just an empty shell now, nothing more.

Breathing heavily, he turned to the man behind him and choked out a single sentence. Anything more would have been asking too much.

"She's dead, Jim."


	2. The WAND, Neighborhood

_AN—part two of five… This time we've got Jim and Sulu… I have to admit, Sulu's story miiiiight have been influenced ever so slightly by the movie "UP."_

_Disclaimer: still don't own it :)_

**3. The W.A.N.D.—**_Flaming Lips_

Jim sat in the captain's chair, hands stretched out behind his head, and long limbs thrown out haphazardly before him in middle of the aisle.

The planet the Enterprise now orbited around had been saved, the mission successful and Jim now rode the high that came from that sense of perpetual achievement.

Smiling to the ceiling and swinging slightly back and forth in his chair he called out to no one in particular.

"_God_, I'm good!"

**4. Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)—**_Arcade Fire_

Hikaru ran through the brush, his progress slightly hindered by the wooden sword he clutched tightly in his hand. It hit the bushes and decapitated flowers by the side of the path, but Hikaru did not pay them any mind.

Breathing hard he rushed into a clearing shouting at the top of his boyish voice as he did so. "OLLY-OLLY-OXENFREE, Akiko! I beat you! You owe me a new sword!"

Hikaru looked back the way he had come expectantly, but nothing happened. "Akiko?" He shouted hesitantly.

No response.

But before he could do anything else, a shape dropped down out of the tree directly above him and landed with a thump in front of him. He yelled in shock, swinging his sword wildly in a misguided attempt at self-defense, all sorts of thoughts of wild animals conjuring themselves before his brain before he even stopped to grasp what exactly the figure was. He stopped when he realized that the figure was in fact, not a wild boar or a wayward tiger, but a little girl.

"Akiko!" he said in recognition, half relieved and half annoyed, the tip of his sword dropping to the ground.

"Sheesh, _watch it_, Hikaru!" the shape yelled, wrestling the wooden sword out of his unresisting hands, "Give me that before you take my head off!"

Hikaru blinked. The little girl about his own age stood in front of him, her tiny hands on her hips and her expression murderous. Somehow the look reminded him of his mother in one of her moods and Hikaru knew he was in trouble. "You did _not_ beat me!" the girl said sniffily, "I've been waiting here for _five whole minutes!_ So I think it's _you_ who owes _me,_ mister!" She punctuated the last word by poking him hard in the chest, her almond eyes little more than slits.

"Akiko!" he said accusatorily, "You cheated! No way you beat me!" His pride simply wouldn't allow him to accept that a girl a head shorter than him had just trounced him in a race.

Her dark eyebrows arched. "I beat you fair and square, Hikaru, now pay up!"

Looking into her eyes, Hikaru's young mind knew that she wasn't going to give him any ground no matter how hard he wheedled. Grudgingly he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a pristine wooden slingshot and a small pouch of stones. He stared at both items in his hands a little regretfully. He had made the slingshot himself—had painstakingly searched out the perfect branch to use--had spent hours whittling it in his father's shop. Every mark in it had been deliberate, every carving careful and precise. He slowly handed it over to Akiko, sorry that he had ever made the bet in the first place.

But Akiko didn't take it. He held it out to her insistently, but she only gave him a coy smile. "You keep it, Hikaru," she said slyly, her hands now crossed in front of her chest.

"But you won it!" he said, sure that she had gone crazy. He wasn't sure why he was arguing for her to _take_ his beloved slingshot. He only knew that it was fair that she take it. He wanted it to be fair.

"Nah," she said, pushing it back to his chest, "You love that thing. Besides, I only wanted to show you that I could beat you with my _eyes_ closed."

"Yeah, right," he said gruffly, taking his slingshot back. But he was secretly overwhelmed with gratitude as he stuffed the wooden toy back into its rightful place in his back pocket. "I'll make you a brand new one, how about that?" he said a little bashfully.

Akiko smiled, a huge, genuine smile that made her eyes crinkle around the edges. Hikaru loved it when she smiled like that. "Okay," she agreed, clapping her hands together, "We can use them for when we hunt jaguars in Brazil!"

"But Akiko," Hikaru said, confused. "We're in Japan."

"No, we're not!" she said, her hands gesturing mystically in front of her face, "We're in the jungles of South America!"

"Akiko," Hikaru said skeptically, "I can see my house from here."

She laughed, a light, childish, and happy sound. "Hikaru!" she said, "You're too _literal._" She relished the new vocabulary word she'd picked up from her parents. Hikaru knew she had—she'd been using it at least once every two hours like clockwork since she'd caught on to the meaning three days ago. She set her chin firmly. Again, Hikaru knew there would be no arguing with her. "Hikaru," she said regally, drawing herself up to her full height, "We are _going_ to the jungle and then we are _going_ to catch our very own _anaconda!"_

"What's an anaconda?" Hikaru asked, completely nonplussed.

"I dunno," she said taking his hand firmly in her own, a wicked spark in her eye, "C'mon, let's go find out!"


	3. The Entertainer, Nocturne 8 in D Flat

_AN—Here we have a Kirk and a Kirk. Guess who I like writing the best? This first story sort of got away from me. It turned into a whole lot more than it originally was, but it was just too much fun sticking Jim and Spock in costumes… Oh, Billy Joel… You bring out my ridiculousness…_

_Disclaimer—still don't own it._

**5. The Entertainer—**_Billy Joel_

Kirk grimaced.

_Typical,_ he thought bitterly to himself, shifting uncomfortably in the tight suit he'd been forced into and glaring into the amber liquid clutched in his hands. _Of course this would be his favorite club. This guy was a pain in the ass from the beginning. _The garish lighting cast a sickly pinkish glow on his skin and the thumping of the music was steadily boring into his cranium in a way that he was sure would soon drive him insane.

"Do you see him?" Kirk muttered covertly to the man beside him, doing his best to ignore the ridiculous display on the stage behind him. The man tilted his head slightly in Kirk's direction, a faint quirk of his pointed eyebrows characterizing his otherwise stoic features.

"He has not yet entered the bar, Captain."

"_Dammit_," Kirk muttered to himself. He didn't want to be stuck in this dump of a club for any longer than he needed to. Glancing over his shoulder, he snorted at the flamboyantly dressed alien that now graced the stage. It—he couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman, or both—looked more like an overlarge aardvark than anything else, albeit an extremely gaudy aardvark, and the current _noise_ it was making could hardly stand to be called music. It was playing something that was altogether too catchy to be allowed—the kind of song that wormed its way into Kirk's skull for days on end until he felt the only way to get rid of it was to smash his head against a wall repeatedly. He looked at his glass, wishing he could drink the pain of the music away, but knew he couldn't. He had a job to do.

Two minutes of excruciating catchiness later, Kirk muttered to his companion once again, fidgeting. "Where _is_ he? He was supposed to be here over an hour ago… We gotta get out of here, Spock, this place is driving me insane."

Spock considered him, eyes surprised under his multicolored beanie. "This bar encompasses loud music, flashing lights, and a number of half-intoxicated women, Captain. I would have thought that it was exactly to your liking."

"I like _good_ music, Spock, and I prefer girls who don't wear pantaloons," Kirk said scornfully, eyeing a large group of aliens swathed in wide, neon pants with contempt.

"Please clarify," said Spock, his eyebrows rising slightly, "I am unable to tell the difference between your usual musical taste and the music in this club."

Kirk laughed sarcastically. "Very funny," he muttered, "Spock, some day I am going to teach you about _cool._"

"I do not believe I need coaching in the matter, Captain."

"_Not_ the temperature, Spock…"

"I am aware of your meaning, Jim."

"Oh, so you think you can pull of _cool_ better than I can?" Kirk spluttered indignantly staring at the ridiculously dressed Vulcan in front of him. "You look like Fred Flinstone meets the science brigade!" Kirk gestured at Spock's attire disgustedly.

"I am unaware of this Mr. Flinstone whom you speak of. Please clarify," Spock requested for the second time.

"Old Earth TV show. Don't worry about it."

"The people of this planet are notably ostentatious, Jim. I am merely attempting to blend in."

"Whatever. By the way, you should tell your _girlfriend_ to brush up on her cultural fashion knowledge. I'm pretty sure tube socks and leopard print were _never_ in fashion—I don't care _what_ they wear here."

"Lieutenant Uhura researched extensively on the culture of this world," Spock argued, "I do believe her knowledge of such areas overshadows your own personal sense of fashion."

"Cultural knowledge—that's bullshit. Call it what you like, Spock. I call it a practical joke."

Spock opened his mouth no doubt to utter another passively blistering remark, but Kirk hushed him, glancing over his shoulder. "Shut up, _shut up_—he just walked in."

They both turned discreetly to see that a veritable mountain of a man had just entered into the club. His skin was a rough, tanned brown, as if it had been out in the sun far too long, and he wore a suit just as lurid if not more so than all the other inhabitants of the seedy club. It fit him badly, and Kirk could see his large, brown stomach poking out beneath a lime green shirt and vest. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Kirk turned back to Spock.

"_Weapons dealers_," he snorted, shaking his head, "You think you'll be able to take him out with your nerve-pinch thingy?"

"I believe that it will indeed prove successful despite his size," Spock said, studying the alien.

"Great," Kirk said, getting up and pulling his leopard print jacket straight, "Let's go."

They moved fluidly from the bar to the tables behind them, Spock splitting off from Kirk to come up behind the giant of a man. Kirk, drink in hand, prepared himself for a bit of quality acting.

Fixing a decidedly glazed look on his face and swaying slightly, he stumbled his way toward the man, knocking into tables and chairs as he went.

The man took no notice. He was busy leering at one of the waitresses, and Kirk could see that Spock could not get around the man without his guards noticing. The time had come for drastic action.

Tripping intentionally over the last table between them, Kirk fell spectacularly onto the man's ample stomach, amber liquid splashing everywhere. The man let out a cry like a wounded elephant and surged to his feet, taking Kirk with him. The entire bar had gone silent.

Kirk only blinked blearily at him. "Sorry, man," he slurred, squinting up at the beast looming over him. Taking a pink handkerchief out of his pocket, he proceeded to swipe at the man's jacket, only succeeding in smearing the drink further into the fabric. "Looss—sorry—_looks_ like ya got somethin' on yer jacket…"

But the weapons dealer had had enough. Shoving Kirk backward none too gently, he motioned to his guards. "Take him out in the alley where he can sober up," he barked at them. The two guards came forward and snatched Kirk under the arms. Kirk stumbled under their weight. "Woah, man!" he protested drunkenly, "Look, I didn' mean any harm, I ssswear. Scout's honor, I'm cone sold stober, I promise."

The weapons dealer only gave him a disgusted snarl and waved to his men to continue with their task and Kirk found himself being dragged backwards still, but not before seeing the flash of a pale hand find its place on the giant's shoulder and squeeze deftly.

Kirk grinned.

The weapons dealer wavered, and his guards paused, seeing him stumble. All seemed to go still for a split second, before the giant of a man fell with one almighty crash over three spindly tables, overturning a fourth as he went down. Dishes and glasses shattered everywhere and a waitress standing nearby shrieked.

Kirk did not wait for another opportunity. Flipping one of the guards neatly over his arm, he reached up and punched the other in the face with his recently freed fist. Finishing the job, Kirk pulled out his phaser and stunned the two of them in rapid succession.

Looking up, he saw Spock standing placidly as ever directly behind the weapons dealer's prone form.

The entire club stared at the two of them in surprise. Kirk shrugged, stowing his phaser once again out of sight. Walking over to the weapons dealer, he shoved him lightly with his foot. The man did not so much as grunt.

"Perfect," he said, taking a coin out of his jacket and flipping it onto the nearby table. "For the mess," he told the curvaceous waitress, giving her the shadow of a wink. She simply looked too shocked to care about Kirk's flirting and he gave her up as a bad job.

Turning back to Spock, he said, "C'mon, let's get him outta here."

Wordlessly, Spock seized the hulk of a man underneath his arms and Kirk grabbed his legs and they lurched their way toward the door. The shaken customers scurried to clear a path for the awkward threesome, and the silence that had fallen after Kirk had stumbled into the man broke as the clientele began muttering excitedly amongst themselves. After a few moments, the aardvark on stage began to play again the same catchy tune as before.

Kirk stopped dead, rolling his eyes. Spock stared at him questioningly.

"Just a second," he told the Vulcan, dropping the weapons dealer's feet with a deadened sort of thunderous boom. Then, in one fluid motion, he turned, drew his weapon and shot the entertainer without hesitation. It let out a squeal as the stunning blast caught it square in the chest and collapsed head first into the instrument it was seated at with a deafening _bang_. Silence reigned in the club once more as the customers once again stared at him, wide-eyed.

Kirk stowed the weapon back in his pocket, glaring at the stage. "_God_, that was annoying," he said, and stalked out without another word.

**6. Nocturne #8 in D Flat—**_Frédéric Chopin_

Kirk sat with his eyes closed, back against the rock behind him. He did not feel, he realized with a pang, angry or vengeful like he should—like he _usually_ felt in situations like this. Phaser fire steadily ate away the other side of the rock, and he could not bring himself to feel even remotely afraid. They were surrounded with no way out and all he felt was—quiet.

He glanced to his left and right, taking in his two companions on either side of him.

"Just for the record," he said, locking his phaser determinately, "It has been a pleasure working with you gentlemen."

The two of them looked at him.

"Likewise, Captain," the man to his right said, his pointed eyebrows raising ever so slightly.

The man to his left rolled his eyes. "Keep it in your pants, you two," he growled, "How the _hell_ are we gonna get out of here?"

Kirk glanced again at him and then scrambled around to poke his head over the rock they rested against. Immediately met with phaser fire, Kirk hastily ducked back behind his hiding place with a grunt.

"What's going on out there?" the man to his left insisted.

Kirk looked once again at both of his companions. "Two heavy artillery gunmen, six or seven guards, three of those tank-things, that sniper from earlier, and enough ammunition to blast a hole in the Earth the size of Belgium." He paused, a mischievous grin on his face, looking at each of his companions in turn. "We can take 'em."

He glanced over the rock once again—yet again nearly singeing off an eyebrow. "Yeah, we can totally take 'em," he assured his friends.

The three of them looked at each other, one confident, one poised, and one determined.

"Let's go."

As if acting on a mutual signal, the three of them flung themselves out from behind their minimal shelter and sprinted toward the barrage of enemy fire, shooting madly, and—on at least two of the three's parts—yelling fit to burst.

After a minute of intense fire and explosions, to Kirk's immense surprise, they were gaining ground. They had almost made it through the barricade. Kirk's will reasserted itself in full and he charged on ahead, intent; determined.

But a sudden shout from his right stopped him in his tracks.

He had a fleeting impression of a flash of blue disappearing under a mass of bodies and armor before losing sight of it completely. "Spock!" he heard himself shout, "NO!"

Changing directions, he sprinted flat out towards the place where his friend had disappeared, shouting insanely. He had almost reached the place when—

Something hit him in the back and pain exploded through his entire body.

And he felt himself falling…

Black.


	4. Black Like Me, You Love Me

_AN—Whoooops. Major internet troubles over here. Meant to get this out a couple days ago, but it crashed big time. Anyway, last one of these to be posted tomorrow sometime..._

_This set's another McCoy and a George Kirk Sr. A wee bit on the sappy side. You have been warned._

_Disclaimer—still don't own it…_

**7. Black Like Me—**_Spoon_

McCoy glared through the bottle of brandy as if willing it to refill itself. Instead he emptied the remaining contents into his glass and drained it in one gulp, wincing slightly as he did so.

He knew he was drunk. But of course, that had been the point of this whole expedition with the brandy bottle in the first place. He took grim satisfaction in the slowly spinning room around him, savagely daring the world around him to _make_ him stop drinking. But he would not stop drinking until he completely forgot exactly what day it was and why on this day precisely five years ago—

But he wasn't going to remind himself. Again. So he made his way to the cabinet by his bed, stumbling on the leg of his chair and narrowly avoiding making his face a permanent feature of his wall shelf. He regained his balance just in time, but let out a few choice swearwords just for good measure. Reprimanding the chair in a stern, albeit slurred voice, he reached out toward the cabinet and wrenched it open none too gently. There, tucked away in the very back was exactly the thing he needed: a fresh bottle of brandy.

He (after several misses) grabbed the bottle and headed back to his table where he seated himself heavily, chuckling to himself. "Just what the doctor ordered, yessiree…" he muttered darkly. Some part, some very small part of his brain registered how stupid a comment the one he had just made had been, but the larger part, the drunker part, didn't care either way.

He poured a sloshing glass full of the gloriously amber liquid and eyed it steadily—or as steadily as he could as he was weaving in his chair. "Y'hear me, brandy?" he told the silent glass, 'S just you 'n me, right? Jus' you 'n me…"

"First sign of madness, Bones," a deep voice came from behind him.

Jumping so badly the brandy sloshed out of the glass and directly onto his lap, McCoy swore loudly. He didn't even bother to look around at the man who had just entered his quarters; he knew damn well who it was. "That's talking to _yourself_," he slurred angrily to his drink.

"Sorry?" the recently arrived Jim asked, dropping into the vacant seat next to him.

"Talkin' t' _yourself_ is the first sign of madness," McCoy repeated dourly, trying and failing to focus on his friend beside him, "I was talkin' t' th' brandy."

"I see," Jim said, his eyebrows traveling steadily up his forehead. McCoy had the distinct feeling that his friend was X-raying him with those electric eyes of his—and he didn't like it one bit. The more time the kid spent with that Vulcan, McCoy mused blearily, the more he was starting to _act_ like the green-blooded bastard. But the next moment, Jim did something decidedly _un-_Vulcan, and McCoy had to rethink his previous sentiment. The younger man reached over and clapped the doctor on the back and gave him a rueful half smile, as he did conjuring up a second glass seemingly out of thin air. McCoy blinked. Of course, this was Jim he was talking about, so it made perfect sense that he would carry an extra drinking glass with him at all times—even when just coming off of duty, which he clearly had just come from.

Jim inspected the glass in his hand suspiciously, rubbed off a bit of dust off of it with a yellow sleeve, and fixed McCoy once again with that oddly penetrating blue-eyed stare.

"So… Happy anniversary, huh?" the kid said, helping himself to an ample portion of the brandy on the table between them.

McCoy snorted.

"Yeah," said Jim, taking a deep swig, "Thought so."

McCoy snorted again.

"Careful, Bones. You do that again, and you're gonna blow the ship off course."

McCoy almost snorted again out of spite, but refrained more for the sake of the brandy in his mouth than anything else. Instead, he settled for glaring at one of the three blond men currently blurring in front of his vision. Swallowing, he said, "What do you want, Jim?"

The three Jims only laughed. "Happiness. Acceptance. Love. At least that's what you keep telling me. Though I'd say I could settle for a good—"

McCoy held up a hand. "Don't even say it, kid. I'm not drunk enough for your filthy mind."

Jim pulled a falsely offended face, looking uncannily like an abandoned puppy caught in the rain. "I was _going _to say, 'settle for a good _drink,'_ Bones, '_drink.'_ Get your mind out of the gutter."

"You started it," McCoy muttered under his breath sarcastically.

Jim laughed again. He really was irrepressible. "And I thought _I _was supposed to be the child in this relationship," he quipped, still chuckling. "C'mon, Bones. The least I can do is get utterly smashed with you tonight, so let's make the best of this." He held up his glass and toasted McCoy with a sort of casual ease that McCoy knew had taken years to cultivate.

McCoy snorted for the third time that evening. "Some sacrifice," he grumbled.

"Hey!" Jim grinned, "Friends don't let friends drink alone! Who am I to go against that?" He downed the rest of his glass with a comical flourish and helped himself to some more.

They spent the rest of the night and into the early morning bickering about this or that and by the time 3 a.m. had come and gone, McCoy caught himself thinking—no doubt brought on by the excess of alcohol in his system—that friends like Jim Kirk were hard to come by.

**8. You Love Me—**_DeVotchKa_

Winona smiled.

But this was, of course, a normal occurrence. In fact, there hardly existed a moment in time when she did not smile. George loved her for it and he loved it even more when he could be the reason for that smile.

He coaxed it out of her whenever he possibly could and the reason that it now graced her beautiful features most likely lay in the fact that he knelt ridiculously on one knee outside her dorm room, a cloud of lilacs in hand, and belting "Build me up, Buttercup" out-of-tune at the top of his lungs for the whole hall to hear.

Winona had turned bright red, but not from embarrassment as she struggled to hide her laughter behind an elegant hand. People all down the hallway curiously poked their heads out of doorways and paused in the corridor to find the source of the commotion, but George paid them no mind, his eyes fixed on Winona's, bright and happy and beautiful.

He finished the last verse with a lilac-ed flourish, sending the petals flurrying into a miniature purple snowstorm in the doorway. Gasping for breath and sweating slightly he stared up at the woman before him and smiled, offering her the half-mangled flowers confidently.

"So, what do you say, Winona?" he asked in between breaths, "Marry me?"

Winona just laughed. George's grin deepened, more self-assured than ever. He waited for her laughter to abate, ever patient as she leaned against the doorpost for support, simply unable to keep her happiness from bubbling over.

"Give him an answer, Winnie!" a girl cried from down the hall.

Winona looked down at George between giggles, eyeing him playfully. "Oh, c'mere, you big cheeseball," she said finally, grabbing his collar and dragging him upward for a kiss. George stood up in full, wrapping his arms around her to return it enthusiastically. She stood on her tiptoes, and he leaned into her before breaking the kiss off abruptly.

Ignoring the wolf-whistles and the claps echoing down the hallway, he looked into Winona's eyes, his forehead resting against hers. "I take it that was a yes?" he breathed.

"Yeah," she laughed, "Yes, it was, George. I love you." She stroked the back of his head gently, suddenly serious. "I love you."

George could not keep from grinning like a fool. "You love me?" he said, "Good… that's good, 'cause I love you, too, Winnie… I love you forever."


	5. Teenagers, Kingdom Come

_AN—Last set! Further internet difficulties prevented me from posting any sooner, but here it is :) About these two—I don't often listen to My Chemical Romance, but something about this first song in particular screamed Scotty to me, so that's the way it happened. Besides, I'd wanted to see this scene since Scotty mentioned it in the movie. I __**love**__ Scott Bakula as Admiral Archer, even though I didn't really watch Enterprise much back in the day. I was a fan of him from Quantum Leap. But anyway. He's brilliant. As is Simon Pegg. As for the second one in this set—I was lucky enough to get my absolute favorite Coldplay song, and somehow I couldn't get a clear inspiration for it whereas with all the other ones, the stories seemed to write themselves. Consequently, I had to listen to the song about five times (my roommate just about killed me) until I had even the glimmer of an idea for it. Not sure how it turned out. Too cheesy?... Anyway. I've rambled on for far too long. I hope you, dear reader, enjoyed this! Don't hesitate to drop me a review or some criticism!_

_Disclaimer—I still don't own Star Trek._

**9. Teenagers—**_My Chemical Romance_

Montgomery Scott was in trouble and he knew it.

Of course, it was not every day that one kidnapped a senior ranking officer's prized dog. It was also not every day that one lost said dog in space somewhere with no way of retrieving it.

_Ah, well,_ Scott thought ruefully to himself as he sprinted down one corridor and bounded up another, _You took a gamble and lost, mate. Bad luck._

Now all he had to focus on was damage control.

If Admiral Archer never found out _where_ precisely his dog was, or _who_ had kidnapped it in the first place, well, then, it would all be forgotten. Hopefully.

But Scott was sure that should the Admiral find out Scott's particular role in these events, he would soon be so far up the proverbial creek that he'd need a life raft let alone a paddle in order to get out. It didn't help that Admiral Archer had a famously wicked sense of humor. And he'd been highly attached to that dog. Whatever the punishment would be, Scott thought darkly, he could be sure it would not be pleasant.

So Scott ran through the halls of the Academy, his hands slipping around the PADD's and engineering equipment—all highly incriminating evidence that could—and successfully—be used against him should it be found, his top priority to destroy it all before someone or something got in his way.

These were his thoughts as he rounded a corner at top speed, so intent on escape that he did not immediately see the body standing on the other side. He had only a confused impression of another person coming quickly in his direction, and he let out a curse that would have made his mother's ears turn red had she heard it, and danced spectacularly on the spot. He avoided collision by mere milliseconds, managing to swerve around the offending body without even dropping one single PADD. He laughed gleefully to himself. _Nope, _he thought, _no one's catching Montgomery Scott today. Not a chance. _

Not even pausing to break his stride, he glanced behind him in order to utter a hurried apology, but instead he found his jaw and stomach plummeted simultaneously as a sudden wave of panic froze his brain.

For the man he had nearly made part of the floor was none other than the Admiral himself.

So complete was Scott's alarm that he tripped over his own feet, stumbled and went sprawling flat on the immaculately clean floor of the Academy science wing. PADD's and equipment went flying in all directions, scattering hopelessly across the floor, and Scott, after a moment of panicked scrambling, crawled around trying to retrieve it all before the footsteps approaching behind him came any closer.

"Well, well, well," said an aged voice from directly behind him. Scott froze.

He fixed what he hoped was an innocent expression on his face despite the guilt eating away at his insides and whipped around to face Archer once and for all. The old man looked as he always did—wizened and old like his body was crumbling around him—of course, Scott didn't blame him as the man had to be well over 130 years old, but Archer still had a glint of mischief in his eyes and a spark of energy in his bent form that made him seem decades younger than he was. But right now, those clever eyes were trained all too knowingly on Scott, and Scott felt his stomach sink a further few notches.

"Evening, Admiral!" said Scott in a falsely cheery voice. He winced inwardly. Even _he_ could tell he was full of it. "What brings you to this neck o' the woods on a Saturday?"

"Interesting question," Archer said pacing a few steps closer. Scott scrambled to his feet belatedly and did his best to stand at attention despite having an odd assortment of equipment in his hands. Several power cells bounced to the floor. Archer ignored them. "I seem to be missing a certain dog of mine… I gave him to Lieutenant Kendrick for the day to look after, but by the time I returned, the Lieutenant seemed to have… _misplaced_ him."

"Really?" Scott said, raising his eyebrows. He could feel the guilty expression creeping its way onto his features and he struggled to repress it. Sweat began to bead on his forehead. "I—I wonder where it could have got to, sir…" Technically, he wasn't lying. He had no idea where the dog had ended up—if, indeed, it had ended up anywhere at all.

The Admiral chuckled in a way that Scott didn't like at all. "Here we come to the funny part, though, Mr. Scott," he said, "Kendrick seemed to think that _you _had something to do with my missing dog. Now, why would that be?"

Scott widened his eyes innocently. "I'm sure I have no idea, sir! I've been here all day! And incidentally—if it's all the same to you, sir, I really have to get goin' as I got… uh… a _thing_ to go to, and, uh, I _really_ can't miss it—"

Scott turned tail and prepared to leave at top speed, but a hand shot out and grabbed his ear before he could do anything. Yelping, he dropped the remaining equipment with an ear-shattering crash and attempted to jerk instinctively away. But Admiral Archer was surprisingly strong for a man of his age.

"Scott," said Archer calmly, Scott's ear still firmly in his possession, "I have it on tape."

Scott's stomach sank the remaining few feet straight to the floor and he felt the blood drain from his face. The game was up.

"Lieutenant," Archer continued in a quiet voice, "I really liked that dog."

Scott didn't know what to say—besides, the pain from his ear made it difficult to think. A short silence stretched between them.

"T'Pol," Archer called suddenly. Scott blinked in confusion as Archer released his ear. Scott turned to see an aged Vulcan woman step out of a nearby doorway. She stood with her hands behind her back, aloofly regarding the pair with an impassive expression. "Please escort Mr. Scott to my office," Archer said to her, "We have business to discuss."

The woman, T'Pol, only nodded. "As you wish, Admiral," she said and raised her pointed brows at Scott. "Follow me," she commanded, and turned on her heel.

Scott had no choice but to hang his head and plod after her down the hall, feeling as if he were being led to his own funeral.

Behind him, back in the corridor, Archer bent laboriously to pick up one of the fallen PADDs. Schematics for the exact size and weight of his poor Beagle, Athos, spread across the screen along with extensive notes presumably taken by Scott himself. Archer shook his head to himself and even chuckled a little bit. The kid had guts, he'd give him that.

**10. Kingdom Come—**_Coldplay_

Spock searched blindly through the fog as an unfounded wind blew across the deserted landscape, swirling the odd mist in curious eddies. He stood on the edge of a cliff, vague and hazy and red in the dim light of afternoon and felt a gust of determination touch his fingers mixed with a curious feeling of anger and a blinding flash of sadness and pain and also, oddly, something else; something deeper that might have been called acceptance. But all these emotions teetered on the edge of the cavernous dark of the cliff—deep and black and ever reaching. Spock knew he had little time.

_Jim,_ he called with his mind.

He thought he felt a faint tinge of recognition when he said that, but it wasn't strong enough to be sure.

_Jim,_ he called again, more insistently.

The recognition was stronger this time mixed with a spark of curiosity, and Spock pushed harder.

_Jim, come back._

Finally, a voice answered him as if blown about in the wind, but not ever actually spoken.

_Spock?_

_Affirmative._

A wave of skepticism rushed over him and caught him in its breath. He felt rather than heard Jim's response.

… _Probably a hallucination… Can't be him… They're playing with me…_

Spock projected certainty over the link, and the wind around him grew slightly less pronounced.

_I assure you, Jim, it is I._

The wind swelled, then gathered hesitantly. _Prove it, _it commanded.

Spock breathed deeply. The scene shifted. He had a brief image of himself as a child, sitting rigidly by a brown-haired woman who rested lightly by a window reading, her long bangs falling in her eyes sweetly, then the image changed and he stood in the halls of the Vulcan Science Academy and watched squeeze the hands of the same woman, a rush of affection surging through him. Then he stood on the edge of a rocky outcropping, the rocks as orange as fire, and the ground shaking beneath his feet and watched as the brown-haired woman fell to her death.

For a moment, Spock could not control the depth of hurt that flowed across the link and the two consciousnesses blended together in a tumult of regret, their pain becoming one and welling up until Spock was sure his chest would burst with it, but then the surroundings changed again, blurred at first, and then focused sharply.

He stood on a vast stretch of farmland, green rows of some Terran crop reaching across the expanse of his vision, and in the distance he could make out a farmhouse with a singular light on in the velvet of a warm twilight.

He blinked, and suddenly Jim was there, in front of him. He wore a beaten leather jacket, black boots, and pants of a strange denim texture, a hole ripped haphazardly through the knee. He looked the same as ever but for the blue of his eyes, which was somehow intensified by the wetness now present in them.

"You didn't have to show that to me, Spock," he said quietly, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets.

Spock merely placed his hands behind his back and regarded his counterpart placidly. "I needed to prove to you that I was not a figment of your imagination, Jim. Showing you those memories was simply the most effective way to do so."

Jim quirked his mouth in a humorless half-smile, but said nothing.

"I presume this is the farm where you grew up?" Spock asked, gesturing at the farmhouse and fields.

Jim glanced around at their surroundings in slight surprise, as if noticing them for the first time. "Yeah, I s'pose so."

"May I inquire as to why we are in this particular location?"

He shrugged, raising his eyebrows and staring into the balmy dusk and Spock felt a slight whisper of confusion brush across his skin. "I have no idea. I mean, I grew up here as a kid, but…" He let the sentence trail off into the evening. Something in the still air smelled of sorrow, like the end of a summer's day when the light no longer warmed the earth but disappeared into cold night.

Spock let the issue pass. "Jim," he said, stepping forward, "You must not yet give in. You must return with me. You must follow the link back."

Jim opened his mouth, swallowed, and tried again. "I—I can't do that, Spock."

Spock pinned him with his gaze. "You must."

"I—" he hesitated, "I promised them, Spock. I promised them. Me for all of you. That was the deal. I can't come back."

"You must fight them, Jim."

"Spock, I—I can't do that. I _can't_. I do that and you're as good as dead. Besides, they're too strong. They're—" He gazed around again in frustration, his eyes taking in the purple sky, the dusty fields and the farmhouse in one sweep. "They're too powerful."

"Then you leave me with no choice," Spock replied, "I will fight for you." He stepped back and closed his eyes. But before he could probe any more with his mind a hand closed around his arm and he was forced to open his eyes once more to see Jim glaring at him as a strong gust swept the landscape, rustling frantically through the leafy rows of the crop and swirling about the still forms of the men in agitation.

"No!" Jim shook him. "No, I won't allow you to do that! You'll die!"

"Perhaps," Spock replied calmly, "But as you say, 'I do not believe in no-win scenarios.' If I die, you will be allowed to go free."

"NO!" Jim repeated angrily, "Stop it! I won't let you do this! They'll find you—they'll hurt you and they will kill you before you can do anything about it! Please, Spock." He could not keep the desperation out of his voice. "Please… _please_ leave. Let me go. I'm… I'm not worth that."

"I apologize, my friend, but I will not." With that, Spock closed his eyes again and before Jim could do anything else, reached out with his mind and pushed with his full will. Wind blew around them so strongly that he heard Jim fall to the ground hard where he was pinned.

"Spock, STOP!"

Spock barely registered the shouted words. They whipped away in the wind as easily as errant leaves. He allowed nothing to penetrate the gale.

But suddenly a pain erupted behind his eyelids that brought him to his knees, blinding him, hurting him, and feeding off of him. He heard Jim's screams echoing in his mind and knew that in Jim's mind, he would hear the same from Spock. The pain changed; intensified, building on itself. White-hot shot through him at the same time as iciest cold. He could not remember who he was, where he was, or what he was doing. He was no longer Spock, but a beaten, tortured slave, broken and dying.

But then a face burst in his consciousness before him.

_Jim._

And he remembered.

Spock gathered his consciousness, separated it, and pushed harder still, searching, probing, and hunting for the source of their combined pain, seeking it out as a weed in a garden, a parasitic growth on a sentient, and pulling as hard as he could for release.

The black around him splintered and reformed in quick succession as Jim's redoubled screams reverberated throughout his head; he saw a blonde woman, slightly lined and tired but beautiful as she looked at a little boy without really seeing him at all; he saw the same boy, older now, thinner than a skeleton and identifiable only through the blue of his eyes, his arms outstretched in front of a huddle of terrified children as a dark shape approached in the shadows of a cave; he saw years of aggression acted out in seconds and a flurry of blood and sweat and anger and rage; and then the scene twisted and reshaped and he saw to his surprise himself, standing to the right of a tall man in yellow on the deck of the Enterprise, surrounded by the crew. The man was laughing at some joke told by the dark haired helmsman as a man in blue looked on, rolling his eyes. The scene was somehow a thousand times more intimate than the ones before it—closer and somehow dearer than all the others combined.

A surge of emotion not his own so powerful that Spock could not breathe engulfed him and overwhelmed him, and brought him to his knees until—

The scene reformed itself and there he was again on the red cliffs, wind sounding in eerie howls around him and ripping down the rock face in torrents. He blinked, and there was Jim lying on the ground in front of him curled on his side, blood pooling steadily around him and turning the land redder than it had been before. He shivered on the rocks, clutching at them, scrabbling, but for nothing.

Spock bent down beside him, grabbing the man's shoulders and turning him roughly. Jim's eyes shone livid out of his pale face and he panted for air, blood staining his mouth around the edges as he struggled for speech.

"Jim, you must fight, my friend," Spock insisted again. But Spock blinked and Jim was gone, leaving Spock grasping at thin air that a moment ago had been solid.

The wind whistled across the deserted landscape, a fog closing in on him, and he heard a faint whisper brush against his mind.

_Spock… Go… It's too late for me… _

Spock surveyed the harsh rock and stone around him. Closing his eyes to blackness, he gathered his consciousness, preparing for the pain that he knew was inevitable.

_No, Jim. I will wait._


End file.
